Chapter 8 - The Traitor in the Butler's Pantry
The cold draft coming through the floorboards smelled of wet leaves and burning copper wire.
I pressed my back against the dark mahogany paneling of the butler’s pantry, barely daring to breathe.
Through the narrow frosted glass window of the pantry door, I saw a thin beam of white light sweeping across the kitchen tiles.
Someone was inside the house.
And they hadn't used the heavy front doors where the security sensors would trigger the estate sirens.
They had entered through the old vegetable delivery chute behind the scullery.
A chute that only five people on the entire estate staff knew even existed.
The beam of light moved methodically across the stainless-steel counters, illuminating the dented red stockpot that still sat on the stove.
A quiet, venomous snicker echoed through the empty kitchen.
“Sentimental garbage,” a voice whispered in the dark.
My blood ran cold.
It was not a hired hitman.
It was Thomas Sterling, the head butler whom Vanessa had brought into the house three months ago.
Thomas had presented credentials from five-star European hotels, speaking with a polished British cadence that charmed the older capos.
He was the one who had locked the service gate when Uncle Paul arrived in the freezing rain.
He was the one who had carried the little blue chair out to the trash compactor on Vanessa’s orders.
I watched through the frosted glass as Thomas knelt beside the antique cast-iron stove.
He pulled a small electronic crowbar and a heavy flashlight from his tailored coat.
He wasn't looking for silverware.
He was reaching behind the heavy ceramic backsplashes where the original gas lines ran into the brick foundation.
Behind that tile was the secondary wall safe Don Antonio had installed in 1984.
It was the safe where Elena Moretti kept her private correspondence, her grandmother’s jewels, and the spare ledger keys.
“Looking for something, Thomas?” I asked, stepping out from the pantry into the dim moonlight.
The beam of his flashlight snapped instantly to my face, blinding me for a split second.
Thomas didn't flinch.
He slowly stood up, brushing dust from the knees of his charcoal trousers, a cruel sneer spreading across his thin lips.
“Emma,” he said, his fake aristocratic accent dropping into a harsh, flat Chicago street dialect.
“I thought you would be cowering in the basement with the old kitchen cow.”
“Maria has more honor in her flour-dusted apron than you have in your entire bloodline,” I said, keeping my knife hidden behind my thigh.
Thomas chuckled, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from inside his vest.
The sight of the gun made my stomach heave, but I forced my chin to stay level.
“Honor doesn't pay the rent on a condo in South Beach, little girl.”
“Vanessa paid me fifty thousand dollars in cash just to make sure that old groundskeeper never reached Luca tonight.”
“I thought the trash compactor would take care of that wooden chair before anyone noticed.”
“Who knew Luca would dive into a garbage truck like a common street dog?”
“Luca protects his family,” I said, taking half a step toward the heavy prep island.
“Luca is an obsolete savage,” Thomas hissed, stepping closer.
“The Bellinis have three shipping freighters leaving Calumet Harbor at midnight.”
“By tomorrow morning, the Bellini family will control every supply route from Lake Michigan to the Saint Lawrence Seaway.”
“And this estate will be nothing more than an empty tomb.”
He pointed the barrel of the revolver directly at my forehead.
“Now open the cast-iron panel behind that stove.”
“Vanessa said the second key to the Zurich trust is hidden behind the flue.”
“I don't know any combinations, Thomas,” I replied, keeping my voice steady.
“Then you are completely useless to me.”
His finger tightened on the trigger.
In that split second, I didn't think about fear.
I thought about my mother lying in that cold hospital room with tubes running into her lungs.
I thought about my brother studying by candlelight because we couldn't afford the electric bill.
And I thought about Luca Moretti handing me that check and calling me family.
I didn't lunge with the knife.
I reached down with my left hand and grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet that Maria had left on the side burner.
With all the strength in my arms, I swung the heavy iron pan upward in a violent arc.
The heavy metal collided with Thomas’s right wrist with a sickening crack.
The gun flew from his shattered fingers, clattering across the terracotta floor tiles and skidding under the commercial refrigerator.
Thomas screamed in agony, clutching his broken wrist against his ribs.
Before he could recover, I stepped forward and slammed the flat of the heavy skillet straight into his jaw.
The impact knocked him off his feet, sending him crashing into the stainless-steel prep table.
Pots, pans, and ladles rained down upon him in a deafening metallic avalanche.
He lay on the floor, groaning through a mouthful of broken teeth and blood, completely incapacitated.
I stood over him, my chest heaving, the iron skillet still gripped tightly in my white-knuckled fist.
From the doorway of the pantry, Maria appeared, holding a heavy wooden rolling pin like a club.
She looked down at the bleeding butler, then looked up at me with wide, astonished eyes.
“Remind me never to criticize your table service, Emma,” Maria whispered.
I let out a shaky, hysterical breath, dropping the skillet onto the counter.
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“We need to tie him up with the butcher’s twine, Maria.”
“And then we need to find out what the Bellinis are loading onto those three ships at the harbor.”
